The Reluctant Groom. Emma Richmond

wondered.

      Taking a deep breath, she turned—and found him gone. Nerves unstrung, she let all her breath out on a sigh. It could be arranged, could it? Arranged for him to kiss her...? No. Shutting off a thought that thoroughly unnerved her, she walked out to see if the post had arrived. But for the rest of that day she was troubled by uncertainty, feelings of—longing.

      The next day was worse. For her, anyway. Probably because she’d spent half the night thinking about him, she thought disgustedly. And why on earth did it feel as though it was taking enormous courage just to take his coffee and biscuits in? She could almost taste the tension in herself.

      Shoving open the study door, she found him standing at the bookcase, idly running his finger down some of the titles.

      She gave a quick glance at his broad back, and turned to leave.

      ‘I imagine he travelled a lot, he said casually without turning.

      ‘My father? I don’t know about a lot,’ she denied. ‘Certainly he went to Russia.’

      ‘Perhaps before you were even born.’

      With no idea where this was leading, she shrugged. ‘Maybe. I know very little about his early life.’

      He still didn’t turn, merely continued his idle perusal of the bookcase. ‘He was a solicitor, wasn’t he?’

      ‘Yes.’ Who’d foolishly speculated on the stock exchange, and then taken out a massive loan to cover his debts.

      ‘How old was he when he died?’

      ‘Sixty-two. Helps with your research, does it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘To know his background?’

      ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

      ‘And biscuits,’ she added as she walked out. ‘Don’t forget the biscuits.’

      What had all that been about? Feeling unsettled, she returned to the kitchen. There had been far too many men of late arriving at the house asking questions about her father. She didn’t need Sam Turner joining the list. How could such a kind, caring, efficient man as her father have left things in such a muddle? Admittedly he presumably hadn’t known he was going to have a heart attack, but even so she would never have said he was a fool. Then there was the letter he’d left instructions for her to deliver. To Gibraltar, of all places. She hoped that wasn’t another debt, but she suspected it was, which was why she’d been putting off delivering it. She would wait until the house was sold, then she would go to Gibraltar.

      Sick to death of thoughts and worries that wouldn’t leave her alone, and needing something to do, she walked into the village to get something for her dinner.

      She didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, and he left without telling her. Perhaps he was avoiding her. Certainly it would be best to avoid him. It didn’t stop her from thinking about him though. And wondering.

      The next morning when she let him in, he was terse. No familiar mockery in his blue eyes, just a nod of greeting and straight into the study. Tension drifted in his wake.

      Pulling a face, she went to make the coffee, and then left it on the desk without comment

      He was filling up her mind to the exclusion of everything else, she thought distractedly. And for why? He was derisive, mocking, not at all the sort of man she liked or felt comfortable with. So why couldn’t she get on with anything? She’d been going to clear out the kitchen cupboards, clear out her bedroom, throw away all the years of accumulated rubbish. No, not rubbish; she’d cleared that out fourteen years ago. But there were still clothes there that no longer fitted. Books. All the things she’d really needed she had moved to her flat in London. So do it, Abby! But she wasn’t in the mood.

      She heard him go out at lunchtime, and without meaning to, without a plan, she found herself walking into the study. Found herself thinking about his offer. Which had probably now been withdrawn.

      She wasn’t very experienced with this flirting business, if indeed he had been flirting. In fact, she wasn’t experienced at all. All those years pretending to be Miss Cool hadn’t left any opportunity for flirting. She was probably the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in the history of the planet! And she didn’t want to be. Not that she was ashamed of it or anything; there had never been anyone she’d wanted to make love to until now. He would probably make a very good lover... Yes, she agreed thoughtfully. But not for her. The man was ruthless.

      She rested her hand on one of the books that still littered the desk; it came away covered in dust. How long since anyone had cleaned properly in here? And if the books were dusty, what on earth was the bookcase like?

      Without stopping to think, she dragged the stepladder in from the hall cupboard and stood it next to the tall bookcase. She could get it done before he came back. He was usually gone an hour.

      Collecting a duster, she climbed up and promptly sneezed. Muttering to herself as she slowly swept the dust into a pile, she didn’t hear the door open, and so when he spoke, asked her what on earth she was doing, she gave a little scream of surprise, and lost her balance.

      Strong hands circled her waist and she was lifted down. He didn’t release her. Just stared into her up-tilted face—and tension didn’t just shimmer between them, it positively glowed.

      ‘You’re usually gone an hour,’ Abby accused breathlessly.

      ‘I wasn’t hungry,’ he answered simply. Eyes direct and bright, he searched her face. ‘So, what were you doing?’

      ‘Looking for hidden treasure.’

      ‘Find any?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘No,’ he agreed. Idly fingering a strand of hair, aware of the shiver she gave, he gave a slow, self-mocking smile. ‘Your mother said you were clever,’ he pronounced quietly.

      Her mother said too much.

      ‘An ice maiden, cool and in control—with a silky soft voice to make a man grovel.’

      Grovel? Oh, boy. ‘But not you,’ she pronounced huskily.

      ‘No. Not me.’ Eyes riveted on hers, he asked intimately, ‘How cool are you, Abby?’

      He was going to kiss her, she thought in panic. Almost in panic. But she didn’t struggle free, didn’t do any of the things she would have expected herself to do. The opposite, in fact. Moving her eyes to his mouth, feeling almost unable to help herself, she kissed him—and the most enormous rush of emotion whirled through her. Nothing in her life had ever prepared her for that. Nothing.

      Disorientated, almost uncomprehending, she whispered dazedly, ‘Not cool at all. I want everything.’

      Everything was what she almost got. His own kiss, without a murmur, without preliminaries, was searing. He dipped his head and kissed her with a harsh, bruising intensity that wrenched the world out of kilter. He wasn’t gentle. She didn’t want him to be. Excitement laced through her as he turned her, held her against the bookcase, and continued to kiss her with a mastery that left her light-headed and dizzy.

      Clutching him tight, she kissed him back with a desire she found as astonishing as it was exhilarating. His arms were strong, and hard and tight, his mouth practised. A kiss to remember for the rest of her life. She could feel his heart against hers, the strength of his thighs, the spiralling, mounting feeling of utter belonging.

      And then he thrust her away.

      Hands gripping her shoulders hard, fingers digging into her flesh. She was shocked to awareness by eyes as brightly blue as a summer sky that, astonishingly, held a blazing anger.

      ‘Sam?’ she whispered in alarm.

      ‘No,’ he denied raggedly.

      Uncomprehending, body aching, needing more, eyes fixed desperately on his, she slid her hands to his warm chest.

      ‘Abby!’

      With